Both have your sunshine; both, though small, are strong In doors and out, summer and winter,-Mirth. T Leigh Hunt. The Eighth Month HE eighth was August, being rich arrayed Forth by the lily hand, the which was With ears of corn, and full her hand was found. She left the unrighteous world and was to heaven extolled. Spenser. A August CROSS the gap made by our English hinds, The withy round the hurdles of his fold; Down in the foss the river fed of old, That through long lapse of time has grown to be Rest here awhile, not yet the eve is still, The sheep-bells, and the restless changing weir, Beneath the sky that burning August gives, B The Solitary Reaper EHOLD her, single in the field, Yon solitary Highland lass! Alone she cuts, and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain; No nightingale did ever chant A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard Will no one tell me what she sings? Or is it some more humble lay, Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang, And o'er the sickle bending;— Wordsworth. Among the Rocks H, good gigantic smile o' the brown old earth, This autumn morning! How he sets his bones To bask i' the sun, and thrusts out knees and feet For the ripple to run over in its mirth; Listening the while, where on the heap of stones The white breast of the sea-lark twitters sweet. That is the doctrine, simple, ancient, true; Such is life's trial, as old earth smiles and knows. Robert Browning. The Joys of the Road OW the joys of the road are chiefly these: A vagrant's morning wide and blue In early fall, when the wind walks, too; A shadowy highway cool and brown, From rippled water to dappled swamp, The outward eye, the quiet will, The tempter apple over the fence; The palish asters along the wood,— An open hand, an easy shoe, And a hope to make the day go through, Another to sleep with, and a third To wake me up at the voice of a bird; The resonant far-listening morn, And the hoarse whisper of the corn; The crickets mourning their comrades lost, And oh the joy that is never won, But follows and follows the journeying sun, By marsh and tide, by meadow and stream, Delusion afar, delight anear, From morrow to morrow, from year to year, A jack-o'-lantern, a fairy fire, A dare, a bliss, and a desire! The racy smell of the forest loam, When the stealthy, sad-heart leaves go home; (O leaves, O leaves, I am one with you, Of the mould and the sun and the wind and the dew!) The broad gold wake of the afternoon; The sound of the hollow sea's release With only another league to wend; These are the joys of the open road— Bliss Carman. W Anticipations HEN still in the season To think of the treasure |